


Bloody Snowstorms

by SixtySevenChevy



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cold, Crowley hates wintertime, Fluff, M/M, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-09 17:57:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SixtySevenChevy/pseuds/SixtySevenChevy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's freezing, and Crowley absolutely despises it. He's even wearing a scarf. A bloody <em>scarf.</em></p>
<p>Which somehow managed to get completely tangled around his neck, and refuses to let go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bloody Snowstorms

Crowley sighs heavily, shivering and huddling deeper into his jacket. The wind is biting and there are snowflakes in the air, swirling about all merry and _cold_. It has no business being this cold. None whatsoever.

He mutters blessings under his breath, teeth chattering. He can’t feel his nose anymore. If he’s honest with himself, he hasn’t been able to feel his nose since he left his flat. Or his toes. Or his fingers.

He’s wearing a thick coat, gloves, boots, and a scarf, all of which are black as sin. His collar is turned up against the wind, and his hands are shoved into his pockets. The scarf is wrapped tightly around his neck, and he’s got his chin tucked into it in an effort to try and stop his teeth chattering. He’s pretty sure he ought to be wearing a ski mask instead of sunglasses. It’s fucking _cold. ___

__By the time Aziraphale’s bookshop finally comes into view, Crowley is shivering so hard he can barely walk. The snowflakes are falling in a frenzy, blurring the edges of buildings and hiding the yellow lines on the road. The wind has picked up, too, and he furiously wills it to stop. Sadly, he’s too cold to concentrate._ _

__He has to knock on the door six times, shouting both curses and blessings at it, until Aziraphale finally opens up. Crowley pushes him roughly aside, desperate to get out of the cold. Aziraphale makes a noise of protest in the back of his throat, but Crowley doesn’t really care. He _is_ a demon, after all. _ _

__The shop isn’t warm enough, but it’s still better than the Go—Sa— _Somebody_ damn blizzard raging outside. Crowley huffs, still shaking, and glares at Aziraphale. The angel, clearly confused, furrows his brow._ _

__“What’s wrong, dear?” he asks._ _

__“Cold,” Crowley spits from between chattering teeth._ _

__Aziraphale tilts his head to one side a bit, and Crowley tries in vain to burrow deeper into his coat. “But it’s barely zero outside,” Aziraphale says._ _

__“I live in hell,” Crowley reminds him. “It’s rather warmed there.”_ _

__“You do not,” Aziraphale argues. “You live in a flat. Or, at least, you pretend to live in a flat. I’m not really sure where you actually spend your time.”_ _

__Crowley neglects to mention that he spends most his time here, in the bookshop, getting as drunk as possible with the owner. “I’m still a demon. We don’t like cold,” he fumes. Aziraphale gives his a condescending smile and produces a cup of tea from thin air. Crowley grudgingly accepts, making sure to miracle it into something more alcoholic before drinking._ _

__“Personally, I think you don’t like cold for another reason,” Aziraphale hums, sitting on the counter next to the ancient cash register and flipping distractedly through an old book. Crowley ignores him in favor of willing his drink away. He’s not sure what he turned it into, but it brings shame and dishonor to the good name of beverage._ _

__“I think,” Aziraphale says, looking up from his book. “I think you don’t like the cold because you’re a snake.”_ _

__Crowley pauses in unwrapping his scarf from his neck. He’s not sure whether to be offended or to be very offended. “I thought you got over that,” he says, choosing to go with regular old offense._ _

__“No, I mean, snakes don’t like it when it’s cold. They hibernate or something,” the angel insists, innocence radiating from his blue eyes. even if Crowley were a distrusting, evil demon—which he obviously is, but that’s beside the point—he wouldn’t be able to disagree with those eyes._ _

__“Are you suggesting I hibernate?” he deadpans, still fiddling with his scarf._ _

__“No! I’m just offering theories!” Aziraphale says._ _

__“Well, don’t,” Crowley orders, trying to figure out how his scarf managed to twist itself around his neck this many times. He’s pretty sure it wasn’t that long when he put it on, although he was already halfway to the bookshop and shuddering uncontrollably when he miracled it into existence, so he might not have noticed._ _

__“Fine,” Aziraphale sniffs, going back to his book. Crowley continues to mess with his scarf. It is now wrapped around his neck so tightly that if he were human, he’d be in danger of suffocation. He pulls at it, but it only gets tighter._ _

__“Stupid,” Crowley mutters under his breath. He can hear a tiny huff of laughter from the angel, and knows without looking that Aziraphale is watching his out of the corners of those blue eyes._ _

__He growls at the scarf, hoping that it will give up if he intimidates it enough. It doesn’t budge._ _

__“Why not miracle it off?” Aziraphale suggests._ _

__Crowley debates the pros and cons of hitting an angel. “Too bloody cold,” he hisses._ _

__Aziraphale sighs. “Let me,” he says, sliding off of the counter and standing in front of Crowley. Crowley lets his tug at the scarf and tries not to make a strangled noise when it cuts off his air supply. Like most demons, he doesn’t need to breathe, but he rather enjoys it._ _

__Aziraphale closes his eyes and the scarf is gone. Crowley gulps in a grateful breath of air._ _

__“There,” the angel announces. “Done.”_ _

__“Thanks, angel,” Crowley mutters, turning his attention to his gloves. Now that he can feel his fingers again, he realizes just how uncomfortable they are. It only reaffirms his intense hatred for all things winter._ _

__“You’re welcome, dear,” Aziraphale says softly, planting a delicate kiss on the demon’s forehead._ _

__Crowley sighs and kisses him back, on the lips this time. Aziraphale makes a surprised noise, but doesn’t protest, just lets it happen. Crowley tosses one of his gloves to the floor and uses the free hand to tug the angel closer._ _

__He’s rather glad he’s not hibernating right now._ _


End file.
